Tennessee
by BlackBear53
Summary: Thanks to Melanie Campbell I have a short story to tell. She did it to me again. If you look closely you'll find Melanie and her husband in it. I also want to thank Knirbenrots for allowing me to use her character Mira. Enjoy!


The day had dawned dismal gray and cold. Gallatin, Tennessee had just received four inches of snow and the temperature struggled to climb past the mid twenties. The day held no promises for the sun to make its appearance today either. Dismal was exactly the word for it.

At eleven in the morning a semi-rig rolled slowly down Sycamore Avenue. The driver eyed his sleeping passenger while keeping an eye out for the house they needed. The driver had picked up his passenger just outside of Manhattan, Kansas and while the man didn't speak much he'd helped with coffee and a couple of breakfasts for the driver. He'd said it was the least he could do. He also kept the driver alert while motoring through a couple of snow storms that had the potential to stop traffic but thankfully didn't this time. Both, he and his passenger, seemed to working against the clock. The driver had food to deliver but what the time constraint on his passenger was he didn't know. He looked again to his passenger who fitfully slept in the seat next to him. The driver often thought that demons chased him while he slept and never wanted to be the one to wake him from those slumbers. The passenger seemed to have a dark side wide awake as well, so the driver let him be.

The house number would be coming up soon so the driver nudged his passenger gingerly.

The man bolted from his dreams to the realization of where he currently was and what it could mean for him.

The semi stopped in front of the house that they looked for and for a brief moment the passenger thought twice about getting out. He shook his head, swallowed once and reached for the door handle.

The driver of the rig knew his passenger only had his jean jacket which would not be enough for this weather. He reached behind him and grabbed a down vest to give to his passenger.

The man gave him a look that said he didn't need it but recognized the kindness behind the gesture and took the vest with a nod of thanks. He thanked the driver and began his climb out of the cab.

A man shoveled the drive and it seemed to be a burden to him. The snow seemed hard to move and the man had difficulty with the motions of shoveling.

The passenger made his way up the drive to the man. "Hi. I'm looking for Enid Ignatu. Does she live here?"

The man looked up from his shovel with a haggard face. "Yeah, she does. She's rather elderly and needs some yard help so my wife and I help her out. This cold is really bad for her."

The passenger nodded. Even with the vest he felt the cold. For one brief moment he wished he were back in Los Angeles. He gave a tiny chuckle and looked around at the area. "I know the feeling. Hey, leave the snow. I'll take care of it. It shouldn't take too long to shovel it."

The shoveler nodded. "Thanks man. I really appreciate it. My name is Jerry and I live across the way at 92316 with my wife Melanie. Stop by later for coffee and pastry if you have the time."

The passenger smiled. "Thanks, maybe I'll do that. I have to see Enid first though. Just leave the shovel with me and I'll return it later."

Jerry grinned, handed him the shovel and turned to leave. As he crossed the street he waved over his shoulder to the man who took over the overpowering task.

The passenger began shoveling the short drive, the walkways and then the porches. It really was a light fluffy snow and took no time to complete. When finished, he ambled to the door and rang the bell.

A small, frail woman opened the door. Her gray hair was pulled back in a loose bun, similar to ones worn in the past, by older women in Europe. It seemed very old world to him and very out of place in the United States. She wore elastic waist jeans, a grey sweatshirt over a dark turtleneck shirt and black slippers on her feet. Her fingers seemed curled with arthritis and her movements slowed by age but he could see that her mind hadn't slowed. He saw how the cold affected her just opening the door but he couldn't help but look for similarities to a woman he only vaguely remembered and his only ties were a picture kept in a box on his mantle. What he saw was the petite woman, the slope of her nose and the color of her eyes. Their color matched his and all he could feel was the pain of abandonment all over again.

Enid grew tired of waiting for a response from the younger man at her door. "Yes…can I help you? It's cold and I want to close the door."

The passenger wanted nothing more than bury those feelings of pain but instead he kept them at the fore. "Hello Enid….or should I say Clara, maybe mom?" He waited until that sunk in and then added to that statement. "My name is Grisha, Grisha Callen."

Callen had to admit she was good. If he hadn't watched her face he would've missed the flicker of her eyes with recognition. She'd known who he was the minute she opened the door.

She nodded her head. Who it was meant for wasn't clear. "Come inside Mr. Callen." She turned away from the door and Callen followed her into the house.

The use of his surname irritated him. Why did she act so standoffish?

She motioned to a chair at the kitchen table as if asking him to sit. It seemed more like a command. "I've just made a pot of tea, would you care for a cup?"

"Yes I think I would. It's rather chilly outside." He watched her move about the kitchen. Even at her age her actions had the grace of an aging ballerina. He wondered what her age might be, maybe he already knew but one could never be sure of the information Hetty gave them.

As she brought the tea cups to the table she eyed him up and down. It didn't seem to be the look that a mother who hasn't seen her child in forty something years would give though. Callen thought it likened to be as what he'd give an enemy he'd been trying so hard to avoid. Callen then wondered if that is what she'd done, avoid them all of her life. He hated to think it but it showed in her reaction to him. Unfortunately, that look did nothing to improve Callen's mood. It brought out the cynic in him and a surprisingly deeper anger than he thought he had for her. It made him push for answers. "So…who really died on that beach since it wasn't my mother."

Clara got a faraway look in her eyes, as if she travelled back to Romania and that beach. Her voice was quiet when she spoke again. "Her name was Constanci. She was your nanny. We knew the Comescu were coming and we thought they knew me but… apparently they didn't. I've felt much pain and sorrow for her and her family ever since that day." Clara stayed in her memories.

Callen nodded, unable to speak. His face gave away the pain he felt. "You've felt pain and sorrow for her all of these years? How about your own family? How come you never came for us? We needed our mother and father yet neither of you came. Why is that?" His voice gave way to all the years of anguish and pain that he'd felt.

She stirred her tea slowly as if she needed to put off answering those questions. Finally she put the spoon down on her saucer and picked up her cup. She didn't sip directly though. "You don't understand what transpired in Romania in the 60's and 70's. It was a harsh time to be Romanian. The Soviet Union came in and took over. There were food shortages, life hard and daily survival was not promised. The CIA re-entered Romania to help the people and to keep an eye on the Soviets."

Callen sat watching her as if she'd disappear if he looked away. Nothing she'd said made any difference. He knew all that. While he searched for her and his father he'd learned it all in a crash course in Romanian history including the ouster of King Michael just after World War two. "But your husband and our father happened to be one of those Soviets. How'd that happen?"

She smiled at that distant memory. "Yes..he was, but at the time he began to see the truth behind the Soviet propaganda and to see many who needed help leaving the Soviet influenced nations. Not everyone believed in the Marxist machine. We originally met in Prague but I was assigned to Romania and somehow he was too. We began seeing each other, fell in love and married. Neither the CIA nor the KGB liked the idea but let it ride for the time being. I think they hoped we could turn each other. Eventually we disappeared into the back country and started our family. The CIA cut ties with me long before I called Hetty to get us out.

Callen grimaced. "You know that Amy is dead, don't you?"

A brief moment of sadness crossed Clara's face. "I honestly believed until five years ago that you all were dead. How did she die?"

Callen looked down at his hands. There would be no good way to tell her this. "She drowned. She'd been placed in an orphanage in Los Angeles. She and a bunkmate would sneak out at night to swim in the river at night when no one would check on them. The original story was that she slipped on a rock and fell in. Later Arkady Kolchek told me the Comescu found her and drowned her. Either way I never really knew my sister Amy."Callen waited a minute for a mention of his younger sister Mira. Nothing came from his mother.

Clara looked over her teacup at her son. She'd never really expected to see him again and she knew he wanted answers. "And you, how did you survive?"

Callen looked away from her. He wondered how to keep his pain and anger in check. Seeing her sit across from him filled him with a rage just as when he met his father for the first time. "My life after four different orphanages was a living hell. I went from one foster home to another, each one more ugly and vicious that the former. I spent time in hospitals due to their abuse only to be returned back into their, and I hate to use the word, care. They brutalized me until I turned fourteen and escaped from the last one and I lived on the street for a year and a half. For some reason the police picked me up and delivered me to Juvenile Hall, where because of my stubbornness, the brutalization happened over and over again. I finally escaped that brutalization, stole a police cruiser, crashed it and was on my way to jail when Providence stepped in. Providence had a name, Henrietta Lange. She raised me until I finished college and entered the armed services. Her guidance saved me from becoming another number in the prison system.

Hetty also taught me about what I'm good at and that is espionage. I hear I come by it honestly having had a grandfather and a mother to lead the way. I also worked for the CIA and a few more of the alphabet groups. I now work for NCIS out of Los Angeles." He gave her another moment to answer other questions but it seemed she didn't intend to without a push. "So why didn't you come for us? Amy could have used having you around. She might not be dead if you'd come. Why didn't our father come?"

Clara gave him a wistful look. "Your father didn't come because he couldn't. He was at a gulag in Siberia and died there. I knew that if I came for you the Comescu would find you and we'd all be dead. I couldn't chance that."

Callen sat in disbelief at her words. Were they her true belief or did she make it up. He couldn't tolerate it. "I met my father last year in Russia. He's still alive and helping people get out of that country and away from the regime that runs that mess. He's living in Los Angeles at the moment." He felt that it would be best not to mention his half sister and her son and he still waited for mention of his younger sister.

Her face showed the surprise and elation that she felt about her husband being alive. She'd tried many times to find him but in the end she believed what she'd been told, that he'd been killed trying to get away from the gulag in 1982. She also knew that the Comescu still looked for any Callens so she changed her name and moved about. The last few years and her deteriorating condition made that harder so she came to small town USA and hid in plain sight. Now her son had found her and she wondered how. Obviously Hetty had trained him well. Even Hetty didn't know that she was still alive. So how did he find her? "So Grisha, how did you find me? You must be very good at your job to do this."

Callen smiled at her forced compliment. "I met someone who wanted to come with me to see you. Her guardian told her where you were and she told me but not before the Comescu took both of us hostage and nearly killed the two of us."

There was a sharp intake of breath from across the table. Her guardian's name was Gabriella?"

Callen nodded saying nothing.

Clara let one tear drop. "Mira? How is she and where is she? How could you let her out of your sight?"

G took in a deep breath only to keep himself from blowing up. Did his mother really think that he'd put his sister at risk? "She is safe with my partner. She's on her way to Washington, DC to meet with a friend who will keep her out of harm's way. Were you ever going to mention her?"

Clara picked up her teacup and went back to refill it. She stood at the counter looking out the back window at the woods behind her house.

G knew he'd get no more answers from her. He looked down at the cup in his hand. It reminded him of his tea meeting with Hetty. He missed her and the tea clatches, hunting for new teas whenever he and Sam were out of country and the introductions to new bourbons, scotches and other libations. It was always interesting with her even if it went with her mind games. He placed his cup back in its saucer on the table and moved to the living room. He looked around at the objects that graced it and wondered what they meant to her. There were no pictures of Amy, Mira or him. There were no pictures of their father either. Here stood his mother, his biological mother, but no love flowed from her to him or from him to her. He found that his anger had abated, his need to find her slaked and while he held her in some sort of estimation, the love just wasn't there. He moved across the room and glanced out at the houses across the way. They were lit up and he felt the warmth of family and there wouldn't be any here. "I'm going to bring Jerry's shovel back." He waited a few moments before shrugging into the down vest again.

Clara never responded.

Callen knew his time here was done. He's always remember his mother as a real person now and give Jerry his phone number to keep in touch with and to make sure Clara was okay. That he wanted to do. After his visit with Jerry he'd find his way to the nearest airport and go home to Los Angeles. He had a family there.


End file.
